


For once

by quietkerfluffle (giraffeminion)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eye Contact, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Johnlock, John sees more than he lets on, M/M, Mycroft and Sherlock both care, Mystrade Monday, Physical Therapy, Poor Mycroft, So much eye contact, hospital waiting rooms, mystrade, questionable decor, they just pretend not to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeminion/pseuds/quietkerfluffle
Summary: For once, it’s Greg laid up in the hospital, and Mycroft is forced to grapple with potential loss.Mystrade Monday prompt: "I'm afraid."
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 10
Kudos: 143





	For once

For once, it is Sherlock who appears silently in the doorway of the hospital. For once, it is Lestrade who lies too quietly and too pale under white sheets. As always, Mycroft sits gripping his umbrella too tightly in the hard plastic chair. 

He’s tired. He knows every fiber of his being must telegraph his state to his brother, and he is too tired to care. Sherlock steps to the foot of the bed, hands resting lightly on the bed rails. Mycroft can feel his gaze, also light, a question. He forces himself to look up, letting his eyes tell Sherlock what his mouth never could.

_I’m afraid._

He watches the subtle contortion of Sherlock’s features, which finally settle on pity. A twitch of an eyebrow, _What happened to, “Caring is not an advantage”?_ The quirk of his mouth is wry, barely mocking. 

Mycroft has no answer, only despair, misery and self-doubt. Sherlock almost takes a step back at the onslaught. His eyes flick to Dr Watson and back, wary. 

Mycroft smiles tiredly. So tired. _You love him._

 _What do we know of love, dear brother._ Sherlock is fighting for detachment, but Mycroft sees his own fear reflected back at him. A surge of protectiveness crowds his chest, constricting his breath. 

_Enough to see,_ Mycroft answers the rhetorical question. _He, too, brother mine._

Sherlock inhales sharply, straightens, files that away for later. He tilts his head, examining the unconscious Lestrade instead, and his eyes slide back to Mycroft. Mycroft sits, blank, vulnerable and open, bracing for a judgment that doesn’t come. Sherlock leaves the room without a word.

It takes Dr Watson a moment to notice his departure. Swearing under his breath, he squeezes Lestrade’s hand once and hurries out. He pauses at Mycroft, hesitating and curious, opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. The gentle touch on his shoulder, wholeheartedly unexpected, leaves Mycroft fighting his breath long after the doctor has left. 

\---

Greg is not quite sure why Mycroft is here, at the regular hospital, on an average Wednesday, in a standard waiting room. He imagines Mycroft can’t be very familiar with waiting rooms.

“It was very generous of you to provide the car,” he tries, but gets no reaction. “Wholly unnecessary for you to come yourself,” he adds. 

“Given my schedule, it is most expedient to conduct our usual debrief directly following your appointment,” Mycroft returns, still looking straight ahead. That wasn’t an answer. In fact, if expediency was really the goal, he would’ve already had a quiet word with the receptionist, or his very presence would set off a chain of events that led to expedited paperwork and the immediate attention of the head doctor. Instead, he sits silently next to Greg, apparently focusing his full attention on the painting of inoffensive pastel blobs that seem to pass for flowers in every hospital waiting room.

“What would _you_ hang in a hospital waiting room?” Greg asks. He likes Mycroft’s company, decides he doesn’t need an explanation for it. 

Mycroft just looks at him, then back at the painting, and lifts an eyebrow. Greg laughs. 

“I think I’d have a rotating gallery of local photographers,” Greg looks thoughtfully around the room. “Landscapes and wildlife for the adults, and critters for the kids.”

Mycroft nods, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. It may be the closest Greg has seen to a smile. He feels unreasonably proud at that. 

“Plants,” Mycroft contributes. “Nothing with pollen or potential allergens, of course. Not only would they help with psychological well-being, but even a minute increase in oxygen composition could prove to have therapeutic effects.”

Greg’s impressed. “Are you thinkin one of those really high shelves that go all around the room? Or built-ins?” Then he remembers something he’d seen on one of those makeover shows he puts on over the weekends. “Oh, or a…” _what were they called again?_ “...a plant wall?”

Mycroft blinks, from which Greg can guess that his veritable library of a brain does not include a home decorating section. Greg figures he better take advantage of potentially the only time he will ever know something Mycroft does not, so pulls out his phone. 

“Lestrade, Gregory?” 

_Bollocks._ Perfect timing. He sighs, tucking the phone back in his pocket and reaching for the crutches. Mycroft makes as if to get up, but Greg waves him back down. 

“I’ll be fine, be right back.”

Mycroft looks distinctly uncomfortable. “They’ll just be removing the cast,” he says, although it sounds like a question.

“Yeah, the only thing I’m afraid of is how ugly it will look,” Greg smiles reassuringly and crutches away, trying not to think about how Mycroft’s visible concern squeezes something in his gut. 

\---

The last few “debriefs” with Lestrade have included less and less about Sherlock and more and more about the detective inspector’s own life. Mycroft is also sure he has never spoken about himself this much, this often, to anyone. It’s disconcerting. 

Tonight is no exception. Lestrade has insisted on choosing the location, his own favorite “hole-in-the-wall” establishment that he somehow had forgotten is up a set of stairs so tight and so steep that it was undoubtedly violating several building codes. It also lacked handrails. Mycroft tries to concentrate on precisely which building codes were in flagrant violation instead of the way Lestrade firmly grips one of his arms as they make their slow way up. He pretends not to notice the detective inspector’s smell, the warmth of his body, or how much he enjoys keeping a proprietary hand on his lower back. 

It should have been the same process on the way down, except Lestrade insisted on crab-walking sideways and sliding his hands along the wall. Mycroft waits patiently at the bottom, offering Lestrade his hand for the last step. He’s surprised when he takes it, rough calluses on soft delicate skin. It takes him a moment to remember to let go. 

\---

It’s at Mycroft’s flat that Greg realizes. He’s in the middle of a balancing exercise, wobbling determinedly on his recovering ankle when it hits him. He’s laughing and struggling to keep steady when he makes eye contact with Mycroft, who is laughing along with him, expression open and pleased. 

His stomach swoops and he feels like he’s falling, only he must’ve been falling for a long time because this feels like the last piece of puzzle that clicks into place: _you’re in love with him._ Then Mycroft grabs him under the elbows, so he must also have been falling for real.

His face, brow creased with concern, is much too close. Greg can feel his eyes blown wide, staring a second too long before his gaze drops to his mouth. Mycroft’s lips are slightly parted, and all Greg wants is to kiss him. He remembers himself just in time and looks down instead to where his hands are gripping Mycroft’s forearms. He makes a joke about clumsiness and obviously needing more physical therapy, and the moment passes. 

\---

At the pub, John is having trouble catching up.

“Weekly dinners? You’ve been to his flat?? He does your physical therapy with you???”

Greg winces. “Yes?” 

John is silent for a while, so Greg chances a look up. John’s evaluating gaze is a gentler version of Mycroft’s, and a kinder version of Sherlock’s. 

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I want to,” Greg whispers. “But I’m afraid.”

John is still looking at him, waiting for him to go on. 

“What if I mess this up? What if I’m reading the signs wrong? It’s just--he’s brilliant and amazing and so caring and what if I’m wrong and he wants nothing to do with me? What if--” Greg rubs his eyes, _why are they stinging_ , “what if I lose him?”

So John tells him about the hospital. He tells him what he saw and what Sherlock told him after. He tells him he thinks Mycroft is afraid to lose him, too, and that he’ll never make a move for the same reasons. 

Outside the pub, the cold screams into Greg’s lungs and his heart feels electric. He cradles the phone to his ear, waits for the ring. 

“Mycroft?”

**Author's Note:**

> Ack this one hit me in the feels friends it's just that kind of week. I like to think John catches on much quicker than anyone gives him credit for, he just chooses to keep it to himself until asked.


End file.
